


Weep Little Lion Man

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In life there is love, there is death, there is fear, but most of all there is hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weep Little Lion Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winterstorrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterstorrm/gifts).



  
**Title:** Weep Little Lion Man  
 **To:** [](http://winterstorrm.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**winterstorrm**](http://winterstorrm.dreamwidth.org/)  
 **Author:** [](http://crazyparakiss.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**crazyparakiss**](http://crazyparakiss.dreamwidth.org/)  
 **Pairing:** Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, George/Angelina, Neville/Luna, Neville/Ginny  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** * Talk of Abortion  *  
 **Story notes:** Angst, Strong Language, Mpreg, Infidelity  
 **Word count:** 20.5k -/+  
 **Summary:** In life there is love, there is death, there is fear, but most of all there is hope.  
 **Disclaimer:** Characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This was created for fun, not for profit.  
 **Betaed by:** CURI  
 **Author's Note:** Spoiler for warning: * While there is talk of abortion, an abortion does not actually take place. * I’d like to thank my amazing cheerleaders, my mega epic beta, and all the others who have put up with me through this fic. I LOVE YOU ALL! :D Hope you like it my dear person. :D Also the title and all the words on the art are lyrics from Mumford and Sons—and any lyrics used in the story are Mumford & Sons.

 

  
It’s been raining for days. Rivulets of water which are sure to leave the bus dirty obscure his vision as he watches the hazy lights. “Comin’ down in sheets,” the driver says and Neville says nothing in return. His eyes are drawn to the blurry people in the street.

His mobile rings, Ron’s name in black block letters, and he sighs as he flips it open. “’Lo Ron.”

“Neville, where the fuck are you, mate?” He shrugs, knowing Ron can’t see him. “Neville, are you listening? You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

“I’m going home, Ron. I told you earlier, I’m not in the mood for drinking and I don’t really want to see anyone.”

“Right then, you want me to come by later?” Ron has the nasty habit of not being able to stay away. Neville appreciates it and loathes it all at once.

“Even if I tell you _no_ you’ll pop round, won’t you?”

“You know me so well, mate. Right. Right,” he’s talking to someone else and Neville rolls his eyes, “Right, Harry says hi, by the way.”

“’Lo, Harry,” Neville says dutifully.

“Right, mate, well Harry and I are off—do get your head out your arse and join us next night out.”

“Course,” Neville says by way of goodbye and snaps the phone shut.

They all let in a building of flats. Sleepy Borough, the place is called—Neville pushes in through the front door after a subtle wave of his arm and runs up two flights of stairs. Brass number four sparkling and he pushes open the door. She’s there waiting for him—hair wet and clothes clinging to the curves of her body. She’s always around when he returns and he’s getting rather tired of all the guilt she brings.

“Hey,” her voice is shaky.

He nods and turns, dropping his rucksack by the door.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

He removes his jumper and smoothes down the white shirt beneath. “No, it’s Harry again, isn’t it?”

“He’s a wanker. He’s not answering when I ring and I know he’s out tonight. He’s always fucking out.”

Neville’s heard the same complaints for nearly a year and a half. Ginny’s a broken pensieve—she wears different clothes and her hair’s changed but she’s always saying the same things with the same expressions. He doesn’t respond. Neville pulls out his desk chair and sits down to write the paper he’s been meaning to for a month. The subject matter stabs through the tender places of his soul and so he finds himself dropping his quill as soon as he has taken it in his hand.

“Are you listening to me?” Ginny breaks his fragile concentration.

“O’course, Gin, but I’ve got work to do.”

“For what?” She speaks as if there is nothing more pressing than her problem. Only there is, Neville’s not going to make a living by playing agony aunt to one Ginny Weasley.

“Mind Healing, it’s important.”

“Don’t see how,” he can hear his bed shift as she lies back, “What does Mind Healing have to do with Herbology?”

“Fuck if I know,” he mutters, as he opens up his textbook. Truth be told, Neville chose Mind Healing. It’s self punishment, Harry says-- _Neville, you can’t fix him. Why torture yourself?_ As if Harry knows everything. Harry’s seen death, Harry’s done more than the lot of them, and Harry’s known more grief! Neville hates seeming bitter, but he is – damn it, Harry’s _talked_ to his parents. Neville’s never been given that chance. So damn Harry if he thinks Neville’s wasting his time! Mind Healing brings him closer to those who cannot speak. He eyes the box of old gum wrappers and wishes he didn’t have the wrinkled papers—he’d rather cash the wrappers in for conversations.

“…he’s been coming home later and later,” Ginny’s still talking as if he gives a care.

Luna drapes a blanket over his back, and kisses his cheek—every morning at three she comes in to take care of him. Neville knows what it means but he’s not sure he wants to encourage the intimacy. She’s an odd duck, and he’s not kind enough to play along with her eccentricities. He’s taken advantage enough as it is, and Neville hates the bile he tastes on his tongue from the guilt.

 

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986898482/)

 

“Harry, com’on we’ve **got** to go,” he says; cigarette half gone between his lips and a lukewarm lager in his hand.

With a half grin Harry closes the case he has his precious banjo in and picks up the smaller case which holds his violin. “I’ve practise tomorrow with my mates. I need to sleep or Todd will be on my arse about falling asleep in his garage…again.”

“Don’t give me that shite, you lot don’t start practise until well past noon.” He’s relentless but Harry’s rolling his eyes and heading for the door.

“I’ve got stuff, Ron, next night, all right?”

He tips back the rest of his lager as he watches Harry go—putting his grey flat cap on and zipping up his jacket before he heads out of the pub. A hand on his shoulder and Seamus’ loud voice in his ear says, “Ron, com’on, we’ve shots of vodka.”

Clapping his hands together once Ron says, “Let’s get pissed.” Seamus cheers in response. “Yeah, fuck it—let’s get pissed!” he repeats.

She’s gone when he comes home. The bed is made but there is a warm spot—she was sleeping there until just a bit ago. Should he chase her, shouldn’t he? He’s not quite sure. She’s been distant lately and he’s been pretending he can’t see that this isn’t working out.

He’s too self destructive and she’s too silent. Explosions of anger they understand—loud fights: their mutual language. Maybe they started this too young, maybe they should have waited. War makes one crazy and frantic; perhaps that’s all it was, desperation.

It’s hard to admit he’s a failure at this—relationships, he feels as if he’s the only one in the family who has this problem. Yet, he’s seen Ginny. She’s been looking drawn and Harry’s sudden distance from them is the cause. There’s more to it, he knows—has a feeling—but he knows he needs to fix this first. He and Hermione: where does he see them in five years, ten, twenty, or in the last years of their lives? Is it her? Or is there another woman who will one day warm his bed and possibly his heart? It pains him to think it won’t be her.

He’d ask Harry, but Harry’s hardly round anymore. He’s always sneaking off to practice, slipping away when an unknown caller rings, and he’s been using every excuse he can find to skive off from them.

In his head he can hear Hermione’s voice, calling, “Come to bed, Ron,” but she’s not here to make his imaginings real. Not anymore. There’s a note on her pillow. Neat script _At my parents. Mince pies are in the icebox, please eat, Ron._ Her name mocks him the most. _Hermione_ \--once upon a time her name brought joy, now the lettering brings doubt and fear.

“Tell me what to do, Harry, I’m so fucking confused.” His anguished whisper mocks him as it echoes in the cold, empty room.

He crosses paths with Luna on his way up to Neville’s. “He in?”

She stares at him with vapid blue eyes, a frown in place of her usual cheery smile, “He’s sleeping.”

Ron pushes past her and says, “Thanks.”

Luna looks at him in a manner which makes him think she wants to protest. However, she never makes a move or sound to stop him.

Neville is slumping against the desktop, a small dribble of saliva slipping out of his mouth and his breathing is even. Ron rolls his eyes and kicks Neville’s chair, “Up you.”

Jerking awake Neville wipes his arm across his mouth and glares with bleary eyes up at Ron, “The fuck, Ron?”

“We’re going to find Harry.”

Neville wipes his fingers across his closed eyes and shakes his head, trying to wake himself up, “What, why?” He glances at his watch and groans, “You’ve got to be kidding! It’s half four! I’ve got a Mind Healing study group at half nine, I can’t go out looking for Harry.”

Ron gives him _the look_ , the one he can’t refuse because he’s a hopeless wanker, so with sagging shoulders and a deep sigh Neville says, “All right, all right, but I can’t miss my study session or Collins’ll bitch again.” He stands up, the fuzzy black blanket slipping to the floor as he stretches and grabs his hoody from off the back of his chair. “Damn it.”

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986899320/)

 

He’s sitting near the front door, touching the hole where his ear used to be, watching the darkened doorway to his bedroom. The rain is a calming rhythm against the windows. It’s died down to a lulling pat- pat- pat and his eyes start to slip shut, blurring the dim corridor. A yawn comes and he’s caving to the desire for sleep when a loud voice outside his front door snaps him back to wakefulness.

“Why the hell would Harry lie to you, Ron?” Neville’s voice sounds annoyed and is laced heavily with disbelief.

“I just know it, in my gut, all right?”

“Okay,” Neville replies slowly.

Curiously George stands and opens the door to his flat, peering out at the odd couple in the hall. Neville’s frumpy, his trousers almost as heavily wrinkled as his shirt. A beanie fits over his head of brown hair—hair which looks oily and matted in the muted lights of the hall. “Aren’t you concerned,” Ron asks Neville and George is amused by the annoyed look that graces Neville’s face. George rolls his eyes, only Ron would be upset over Harry at this ungodly hour—Ron, Mum, and Hermione.

“Not particularly,” Neville snorts and huffs when Ron pins him with a disbelieving stare. “Honestly, Ron, he’s a big boy, no need to hold his hand forever.” Neville sighs. “What the fuck am I doing out here with you, I swear if I miss my study-,”

“You’ll be able to borrow notes if you do,” Ron snaps and Neville’s jaw tenses. George expects him to snap back, what with how tightly wound Neville appears, yet he doesn’t. Pity really—it’s been a long while since someone’s disagreed with Ron. Someone other than Hermione, but she disagrees with everyone.  
“Right,” Neville mumbles, “Because I want to fail for Harry.”

Ron is about to have a row, George can tell by the way his ears seem redder, and he decides to intervene.  
Jacket on, he steps out shoving his feet into worn trainers as he goes, “Oi, keep it down out here. Some people are sleeping.”

Ron turns and so does Neville, they exchange brief guilt ridden expressions and George laughs. In the only manner he can anymore—short, simple, broken. “Go on, you two; quit looking like that—I was funning.” He grins at  
Neville and adds, “It’s the Beltane festival so hardly anyone’s in.”

Neville frowns, “Beltane? Can’t be.”

Ron looks at his watch, “Bugger,” he says while his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline, “I can’t believe I forgot, and I was out tonight!”

“Only the horny buggers remember,” George says with a wry grin.

“I am a horny bugger.”

Neville pulls a face and silence descends. George shoves his hands into his pockets as the awkwardness envelops them.

Then too loud Ron claps his hands together, once, and says, “Off to get Harry then, Nevs?” His overly cheery demeanour belied by the tension around his dark blue eyes. George feels awful and hurt as he stares at his brother. Poor brat’s as lost and terrified as George, and after a sneaking look at Neville—from the corner of his eye—George can tell Neville’s just as bad off as he and Ron. There was war. There was death. There is life after—now— and none of them are sure how to live. This close to the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts they are worse than ever. Most of them still look to Harry—in anger, with hope, and for guidance but these days he’s only good for a fat lot of disappointment.

“I say we start at The Leaky,” George says, throwing an arm around both blokes, “Harry’s always in there checking up on Ol’ Tom, ain’t he?” His tone is cheery, because the last thing they all need is more sorrow—Neville and Ron have enough gloom for a small continent as it is.

If either Ron or Neville are bothered by his intrusion on their epic quest they don’t show it.

 

The Leaky is full of older patrons, most liquored beyond coherency and grabbing onto any warm flesh they can reach. Neville winces as he spots a woman close to his gran’s age trying to get a leg around some old chap. Ron is more vocal and whispers, “Fucking hell, that’s disturbing.”

George smiles pleasantly as he saunters up to the bar and tips his head to old Tom. “Seen Potter in here tonight?”

Tom gives one of his sagging toothless grins, “Nah mate, he’s not been in for some nights. S’pect he’s getting ready for the commemorative banquet tomorrow.”

Ron pulls a face and Neville knows instinctively what’s coming. He’s counting down the seconds before the initial hiss of angry words which spill from between Ron’s lips.

“He’s been here three times last week,” Ron’s face reddens and his knuckles go white. “Supposedly,” he adds dangerously below his breath. And then, and then, of course he rounds on Neville when they exit the pub’s entrance.

“Can you fucking believe this!?” He kicks at a tin rubbish bin and sends it clanging against the concrete—rubbish sweeping down the street, blown away by the wet wind.

Neville stays silent, much like he does when dealing with Ginny. What does Ron expect him to say: _I told you so_ comes immediately to mind, but he’s smart enough not to pick a fight with Ron. Neville doesn’t fancy having to beat on Ron for saying something he can’t take back, and Neville doesn’t fancy speaking words which cannot be unspoken. It’s the middle emptiness: in the space between the rock and the hard place—the place where either option is crap. And when there is no choice there is only silence—which is also crap.

George wanders out of the pub, his coat neck turned up against the chill, “For fuck’s sake, I hate the rain—made everything sodding cold,” he grouses. Then he takes note of Ron’s breathing and his angry hold on the brick wall.

“The fuck’s your problem?”

“He’s lying, all the time it seems!” Neville awkwardly toys with the zipper on his hoody. He’s never been Harry’s closest mate, so he’s not as broken up over the lies as Ron. Fuck, if anything, he doesn’t fault Harry his obvious need for privacy. Harry’s a git, certainly, but Ron’s invasiveness Neville’s been dealing with for months and he can empathise with Harry’s need for a sense of self. Ron, decent as he is, has a tendency to kill what little self exists in people. He takes you in, makes you part of the family, and when he thinks he’s right he presses his opinions on you. They all love him, but sometimes it’s a bit much.

When George wraps an arm around Ron’s shoulder, Neville understands a bit of why he’s that way—he grew up in a unit. Another ginger boy, another brother, another echo of his father—they’re a body, the Weasleys: Harry and Neville have never known such unity.

“Ron, he’s got a reason—let’s go find out what it is, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he straightens but his jaw is still tight and the line of his back is rigid.

 

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986897852/)

 

They’re on the Knight Bus. Ron’s staring out the window past the water beading on the panes of glass—trying to focus on the blurring lights. George is tapping his foot and Neville is chewing his lip while blatantly ignoring his magical mobile. It’s been ringing steadily for the past hour and Ron’s almost at his limit. The constant buzz isn’t helping his irritation—they’ve been to four Beltane celebrations, all at different haunts of Harry’s and still no Harry. Not even a whisper of him.

Ron’s becoming restless. His fingers are in his mouth, nails between his teeth as he chews away—trying to calm himself. George kicks him, and he looks up mildly annoyed, “Quit that,” George says, “It’s bloody irritating to watch.”

“Who died and made you Mum?” He regrets the words immediately after they’re out—no one mentions death to George. The wound’s still raw—for all of them really, but for George it’s the worst. Ron’s not sure he’ll ever understand how deep George’s loss is—he’s not sure he wants to know.

George doesn’t appear to be bothered by the words; he’s the same as he was moments before—perfect in his pretending, save for the eyes. _Windows to the soul_ —Mum’s said that often enough and Ron’s never understood how perfectly the description applies. At least not until now. Looking at George, seeing the pain dull the colours of his irises, watching the way his soul’s spark seems to diminish: Ron finds the description fitting.

And then George is speaking—cutting into Ron in a seemingly harmless manner, “How’s my future sister in law?”

In as even a tone as he can manage Ron says, “Fine, so fine in fact she’s at her parents—cooling her head.”

George hasn’t a reply and Neville’s as still and quiet as normal. So Ron’s left to wondering why he’s holding on when Hermione keeps trying to escape. If Harry were here, he thinks, he’d know what to say—he’d know how to make it better. Only would he? Now Ron’s not sure. But he’s holding on and wishing—always wishing for something or someone to make things right again. Back to normal is what he wants—but he’s not sure normal has ever been a part of the equation.

A baby cries in the arms of a witch not much older than Bill and she shushes the small thing with promises of being home soon. Ron feels lost in the world and wonders when he’ll be home—safe and sound—able to listen to the promises of his mother and believe her.

Seamus is the one who points them in the right direction—he says he told Harry about the fires in Aberdeen and that Harry left hours ago.

Another trip on the Knight Bus isn’t what any of them wants, but it’s necessary. None of them have been to Aberdeen, and they’re all so tired—splinching themselves would be unhelpful.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986900180/)  


 

George’s got his mobile out, looking at the cheap plastic—knowing all he’s got to do is think her name and it will connect. Yet, he’s holding off what with it being a half hour from day break. He wonders if she’ll worry. Or perhaps she won’t. Maybe there is some part of her dreading the future—like him, wondering how terribly they’ve fucked things up.

“Georgie,” Ron says. George’s eyes open. He wasn’t aware he’d fallen asleep. “We’re here, mate.”

It’s green and still mostly dark. The first fires still burning in rock pits—inviting Wizardkind to dance, merrily welcome summer, and celebrate fertility. All things George doesn’t fancy doing at the moment.

They pass masses of bodies. Neville pauses and Ron stumbles against him, “What’re you doing, Neville, com’on.”

“Thought I saw-,” Neville’s staring at a group of lethargic twenty-somethings—his eyes suddenly alert as he scans the crowd. Ron’s blind to what’s around him as he charges on and Neville shakes his head wondering if his eyes are playing tricks—with as little sleep as he’s had it’s possible.

“Forget what you saw,” Ron says dismissively, grabbing Neville’s arm and dragging him nearer the greater fires of the field. The music a thrumming drum beat which seems to vibrate up George’s legs, through his soul, as masses of randy bodies touch and try to sample them as they pass.

It’s what they all suspect on a subconscious level—Harry’s lying— what was he so afraid of them knowing? George stands in shocked stillness, Neville watches with his mouth tightly closed, and Ron—Ron goes ballistic.  
Neville’s not sure he’d stop him if he could and George feels similarly. So in silence they watch as Ron throws  
Harry to the ground—his face a mask of pent up rage.

 

Harry expects the blow the minute his head smacks the ground. He bites his own tongue as Ron’s knuckles sink into his cheek. In his ears it sounds worse than it feels and his face floods with warmth as soon as contact is made.

“What the bloody fuck,” Ron screams—not a yell, not an angry shout—a blood curdling scream that chills Harry’s soul as it dives deep beneath his bones.

Harry’s got no words, and if he had Ron wouldn’t have let him speak them—his fists are in Harry’s open shirt, throwing his head against the hard ground. In Harry’s mouth a flood of copper tang and behind his eyelids a flash of light dances. It’s when he’s close to passing out—that’s when Neville and George haul Ron off of him.

“Potter,” Draco’s shouting for him and kneeling over him and Harry’s eyelids are slipping slowly closed and just as slowly open. “Potter,” Draco shouts again—digging his hands into Harry’s shirt much as Ron had, only with different intent.

“Fuck you,” Ron’s screaming and Harry knows he’s speaking to him and not Draco.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs into the loud night of early morning.

“You don’t get to be sorry,” Ron adds, “Fuck you! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!” It’s a mantra he cannot stop—like a floodgate’s been lifted and he’s pouring out emotions which have built for some time. Then there is laughter, but the sound comes choked with anguish and Harry wishes he could draw away from the guilt it brings. “Of all the shitty things you could be doing—of all the reasons to lie, Harry! _For **him**_!”

There is warmth against him and from between the small crack in his eyelids he can see Draco shielding him. “Let him alone, Weasley!” There is only a slight tremor in Draco’s voice, but Ron picks up on it same as Harry.

There is a sneer in Ron’s voice when he spits words out at Draco. “Such a brave little fucking coward you are, defending him when you know damn good and well if I so much as step towards you Harry’ll pop up to protect you.” He sounds closer and Harry starts reaching for his wand, causing Ron to laugh in a scornful way, “You’d really defend him, Harry? The little fuck who got my brother maimed, _poisoned me_ , and tried to kill Dumbledore!” The worst part is when Ron adds, “But he’s such a limp wristed twat he had to have Snape do it for him!”

Harry’s got no response other than, “You’re right, Ron.”

“Fuck you, Harry, fuck you!”

“Ron,” Neville says as their footsteps carry them away.

And then, “You need to have a word with Ginny, Harry—she deserves to hear it from you, not one of us.” Of course, he knows George is right.

He reaches a hand out for Draco when the silence—save for the drums, crackling fires, and voices he doesn’t care for—drags on.

Cold hands bat his away.

He sighs audibly when Draco stands and he calls out, “Wait.”

“Why should I?”

“Because we were having fun?”

“Fun’s over.”

“Draco—,” he starts but Draco cuts him off.

“Stop, Potter. We both know nothing’s going to come of this and I’d rather not delay the inevitable.”

The sun is cheerful on Harry’s way home and he wonders why the weather likes to taunt him—why must the sun mock him so openly?

Ginny’s in his bed—nude, waiting in silent invitation.

“Look, Gin,” he sighs, “We’ve got to talk.”

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986899776/)  


 

Luna looks up from her potions text when Ginny storms, unannounced, into her room.

“He’s been fucking around on me!”

She looks up at Ginny with a rather blank stare and cocks her head to the side. “I said as much.”

“You said he got some sort of bug in his trousers and that he was looking for a way to scratch the itch.”

“Yes,” Luna says with her usual “of course” voice. She circles a line of text and looks back to her essay. Ginny lays a palm over the words in Luna’s line of sight.

“This is important, Luna,” Ginny says in a rather shrill way, “Can’t you focus on me now?”

With a wide, bright smile, Luna says, “Of course, Ginny—what could be more important than you?” Ginny flushes—embarrassed and Luna will never admit she feels a twinge of satisfaction.

Later at Fortescue’s, over strawberries in ice cream, Ginny cries and cries. Luna talks about the funny little Ice Men who make ice cream possible, and about their funny little shoes and how their awkward noses tend to flap in really harsh winds. Ginny cries harder and calls her a bitch for not listening—little does Ginny know Luna is always listening.

 

Her mother doesn’t let her have sugar in her tea—as per usual, but today she’s not letting Hermione drink caffeinated tea and that’s just too much as far as she’s concerned.

“One cup’s not going to make a difference,” she gripes.

“Hermione Jean,” her mother says in _that_ tone and she is instantly cowed. Then there is a sigh and Hermione looks up to see her mother at the stove, watching the skillet sizzle with Dad’s favoured sausages. The smell makes her stomach uneasy, but she’s sure it’s more of her nerves than the scent of food. “What about Oxford, Hermione?”  
She gives a shrug in response and, somewhere, mentally she’s as scandalised as her mother.

“You can’t give it up—it’s what you’ve wanted since you’ve entered school.” She knows and she wants to tell Mum she’s aware of her dreams—they belong to _her_ after all.

Dad is dressed in his usual crisp white button up and grey trousers, he kisses Mum’s cheek and goes to pour his cup of tea. Everything is normal—except it isn’t.

His jaw is tight and his eyes are dull, he sits across from Hermione with a stony air about him and she crumbles under his gaze.

“So where is this going to go, exactly?” he asks with thinly veiled anger.

“I’m not sure,” she replies as she toys with the shaker of salt.

“Going to get married, drop out of school, and play mum?”

She doesn’t like the condescending tone—what’s he know? With angry eyes she looks up at him, “Is that so fucking bad, Dad?” She has never said any form of the word fuck, especially not directed at her parents—she is both ashamed and empowered.

“Hermione,” Mum shrieks, but Dad doesn’t flinch he just steadily holds her gaze.

“Babies are something to have when you are ready—after university, after you’ve settled, and after you’ve found a decent father for your children.”

She feels the sting of his words—like a physical assault and her eyes water as she snatches up the shaker of salt and throws it at him. “What would you know of decent fathers,” she’s screaming—throwing up her hands and crying like some wild woman on those trash telly shows, but it’s liberating. “You’ve always provided but you’ve always made me be who you want me to be, and you’ve saddled me with high expectations because you’ve always fallen below the bar, Dad!”

He’s on his feet, in her face, eyes wild and angry—her eyes, right down to their gleam of determination and colour.

“I’ve always done what’s best for you!”

“You’ve done what you’ve _thought_ was best for me!”

Mum’s watching in the corner of the kitchen. Her body curls inward and her arms wrap themselves about her shoulders—Hermione almost sags in the face of her distress.

“I do know what’s best for you and it’s certainly not a life with Ronald Weasley!”

She staggers back, and he reaches for her arm but she shakes him off, “I’m leaving, Dad, and I’m not coming back.”

“If you throw away your future, you won’t be welcome in my home!” She’s walking out of the front door with her small luggage case and he’s calling after her, “He’s not going to support you—he’s too young!”

She has tears in her eyes when she Apparates behind a telephone box.

 

Angelina’s got Freddie in her arms. He’s burnt himself on the fire of the stove and is sniffling against her wavy hair.  
His legs curling against the large swell of her abdomen while his fingers tangle in the fabric of her frock, “Shhh,” she soothes.

“Where’s Daddy?” Her heart hurts when he says it because she can’t bring herself to tell him, not ever, that his daddy has been dead and gone since before she knew of Freddie’s conception. She wonders if George hurts when Freddie calls to him, with his sweet smile and innocent voice—does he hurt like she does? Is he feeling Fred’s absence—of course she knows he feels the loss. Deeper, more real, than any of them—even his parents. From one cell, one soul, they were linked and now the link is broken and all that remains is this last remnant of Fred. His son Freddie.

“He’s out,” she says while patting down the dark mop of Freddie’s hair, “He’s with Uncle Ron—he’s feeling unwell and needed Daddy.”

“I’m sick,” he whines, “I need Daddy, too.”

She sighs and looks out the window, it’s wet out again. A knock comes at the door and she calls out, “Who’s there?”  
A loud sniffle and Hermione’s voice comes broken through the door. “It’s me.”

She calls for Hermione to enter and takes Freddie to her bedroom and lays him in her sheets—the sheets that smell of her and George. “Sleep here; Daddy will come and check on you soon.”

“Tell him to hurry, Mummy.”

Angelina kisses his head and closes the door to slightly ajar when she exits the room. Hermione is on the couch her face lying miserably in her hand as she stares at her knees. She’s blotchy and her nose is running.

With a sad expression, Angelina says, “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Thank you, Mum didn’t let me have any tea.”

Waiting a short pause she watches Hermione with a thoughtful look before saying, “I see.”

While the tea is hot and the scones are fresh they eat and drink in silence, but when the tea begins to run cold and the scones are gone, they cannot avoid the conversation any longer.

“Why are you here, Hermione?”

She gives Angelina a wrecked laugh in response, and after more silence Angelina presses her again.

“I’m pregnant,” Hermione whispers as if it’s some sort of awful disease.

Yet, in a way, Angelina understands. She and George have been avoiding the subject for months—the baby. His baby. And she knows what he’s thinking: he’s not Fred—he never will be.

He looks the same, tastes the same, smells and feels the same, but he’s not—she knows that as well as he does and so they exist in this weird world. A world where they both pretend life hasn’t changed—though they know, more than anyone, life will never be the same.

This baby will make things real. It’s no longer her and George playing house—pretending that things are the unchanged—no, now it’s not George playing Fred—it’s George living for George and that terrifies her—as well as him—beyond reason.

“Have you told Ron?” she asks—instead of voicing all of these fears.

“I wouldn’t be here if I had.”

“Why are you here,” she wonders, “You could have gone to Ginny, Luna, or fuck, even Harry.”

Hermione laughs, “Luna’s hard enough to talk to when not being serious, Harry’s been off buggering someone who isn’t Ginny, or so I suspect, and Ginny’s Ron’s sister—she’d rat me out.”

Angelina is only mildly shocked about Harry, but doesn’t say anything—instead she says, “What makes you think I won’t tell him?”

Hermione smiles, “I just know you won’t.”

She’s right of course, but even so Angelina feels the need to say, “You need to tell him before he finds out.”

“I know,” Hermione whispers.

“How far gone are you?”

Angelina notes the way she bites her lip and how she begins to cry again. “Nearly three months.”

“I think we’ll need more tea,” she says kindly and Hermione gives another of her awkward laughs in response.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986900866/)  


 

Luna sees Harry one morning when he’s sneaking out of his flat—it’s been weeks since Beltane and everyone is careful not to mention Harry.

“You got caught, didn’t you?”

Harry pauses at the top of the stairwell. Swivelling on his heel he faces her and she watches him with a steady gaze. He sags while she stares through him.

“Yeah I did.”

“Did you really think they wouldn’t notice?” she’s not being mean about it—she’s truly curious.

“I hoped not, but they’ve never been stupid, have they,” Harry replies tiredly, and then with a look at his watch says,

“I’ve got to be on my way, Luna.”

“Must be nice,” she says dreamily and he pauses, facing her again as she continues, “Fooling everyone—always playing a part.”

“I don’t-,” but she’s cutting off his protests.

“I wonder if you’re even aware of your acting,” she smiles brightly, and Harry’s eyebrows draw together as he looks up at her—she’s on the next flight up, and light is hitting her and she feels like she’s holding him to that spot. As if he’s riveted and she is some sort of goddess or angel who’s delivering a message to Harry. “Is there anyone you don’t read a script for, Harry?”

His eyes are wide and bright—amazingly green and clear—behind his glasses. She’s drawn to his famous eyes, but not because they were Lily Potter’s—she likes them because they are Harry’s and anymore his eyes are the only way to read his emotions. In them, Luna sees what she sees in them all—fear, hope, longing, and guilt.

“I’ve got to go,” he whispers again.

 

She goes to Neville’s room and he’s _comforting Ginny_ , of course—because someone has to. She waits outside, her knees up to her chest and her chin resting in the little dip between where they don’t touch. Luna can hear them through the door—Ginny’s always been loud and Neville just sounds like he’s working out.

A smile is on her lips, but her body’s trembling and her cheeks feel wet.

She’s still sitting there when Neville opens the door.

Ginny goes with an almost guilty look as she hurries down the corridor. They’re in Neville’s room. He’s sitting on the unmade bed and the smell of sex is heavy on the air. His eyes are cast to the floor—he’s looking at his bare feet while Luna gazes at all of the notes he’s got tacked up on the wall his desk faces.

“How did your Mind Healing exam go?”

Neville groans, “Don’t ask—I’m supposed do a re-test since I failed. Should have not ditched the study group for Harry Drama.”

“Hmm,” she replies, tracing the neat lettering his hand produces—smiling sadly at the curving loops his Ls make.

“Luna,” he ventures, “Do you need something?”

She doesn’t reply and after a few minutes Neville says, “I really need to study.”

Slowly she turns, leaning against his desk and cocking her head, “You look like you’ve been studying _hard_.”

He flushes and rubs the back of his neck. “I was taking a break.”

“Yes, of course, Neville.”

He looks at her angrily and says, “What the hell, Luna, it’s got nothing to do with you!” Then he bites his lip as if that’s the wrong thing to say, and it is—she’s fucking him, too: this should be her business. What is Ginny bringing into Neville’s bed, are they safe? Who knows since she’s been slagging about. But really Luna has no room to judge—she’s never demanded precautions.

“I’m sure Harry’d like to know he’s not the only one who’s been sleeping around,” she whispers, her fingers toying with the feathered end of Neville’s quill.

“Yes, I imagine he’d love to be relieved of the guilt,” Neville says with a bitter edge.

“He told her—she should do the same.”

“He only told her because he got caught,” Neville mutters.

“He still told-,” he cuts her off angrily.

“If you think he’s so fucking perfect then why aren’t you bothering _him_? Why aren’t you fucking _him_? Why are you with _me_ now?”

She’s silent—looking up at where he towers over her. His brown eyes wild with emotion and his chest heaving—he’s lovely and fascinating. “Because I like you—not Harry.”

He sags forward, his forehead pressing against her bony shoulder and she presses a kiss to his neck—even though it still smells of Ginny’s skin. “I’m pregnant,” she whispers and slips away from him and out of the room before he has time to process her words after his initial shock.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986901840/)  


 

Neville’s sitting in Corbin’s, the new café on Diagon, staring out the window and watching the happy children walking in the summer sun with their mothers. He swallows thickly, and goes back to staring at his tea that has run cold. He’s confused, angry, and hurting.

George finds him there—with his eyes glued to the lacquered table top. “All right, Neville?”

“No,” he groans, “‘M not.”

George pulls out a chair, Neville hears the feet scrape against the tiled floor. “Wanna talk about it?”

Neville shoves his hands in his hair the strands feel long and greasy beneath his beanie. He shrugs as he does this, and continues to stare through the table—seeing but not as his anxiety mounts.

A cup clinks against the table as it is set, with its saucer, before George and Neville hears him drink—a near silent companion who waits patiently while Neville collects his thoughts.

“Luna’s pregnant,” Neville mumbles, his palm squishing his cheek and making the words a garble that is hard to understand.

“I don’t see how that concerns you—I mean other than everyone’s general concern about the sanity of a child raised with Luna and her nutty father’s beliefs.”

Neville looks up with tired eyes and says, “I’m the father.”

George appraises him with surprised eyes and Neville drops his head back down, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Sit in this café and pretend I’m living another life.”

“Hardly productive,” George says with a blank tone.

Neville snorts, “This coming from you.”

“I’m not running away,” George counters.

“Aren’t you, though?” Neville asks quietly, “You’re not running away while living for someone else?”

He sees the way George flinches and wonders if perhaps he’s hit below the belt this time.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986902690/)  


 

George goes home to Angelina after leaving Neville in the café staring at the table and running his finger around the rim of his cup. Angelina is cleaning off the kitchen counter, Freddie’s pulling at her skirt and she’s rolling her eyes as he asks her for more snacks.

“Dinner’s coming soon, all right.”

Freddie puffs up his cheeks at her and crosses his arms, turning away in a bratty snit. When he sees George his eyes light up and he forgets his anger, “Daddy!”

George has an armful of Freddie and a broken piece of his heart missing Fred.

“All right, Freddie,” he says and he knows there is a catch in his throat.

 

Ron is watching Hermione as she wanders through the flat. Her hands are steady as she riffles through the bookcase—searching for a much needed tome.

She doesn’t look him in the eye—as if there isn’t any time and he chews down his nails while he watches her work. There is a silence so loud it causes his ears to ring unpleasantly and he’s got irritation itching in his veins. _Fucking look at me,_ he’s screaming in his head and as they are no longer in sync she doesn’t glance his way. Then he wonders if there ever was a time when they were linked—was there, was there ever a moment when she let herself be full of him?

Again tonight she doesn’t let him hold her and he wonders what’s going on. He’s sexually and emotionally frustrated by the way she’s freezing him out.

In the bathroom he finds a phial of potion—the label familiar, and his mouth forms a thin line.

He’ll wait another week, the stopper is still corked and the glass is full—he wants to see what she’s planning.

 

Harry haunts the road in front of Draco’s flat. The tall, pristine white building mocks him in its own Draco like fashion—letting him know he’s too dirty and ruffled to be allowed in. Yet, he ignores the taunting voice in his head—a voice so much like Draco’s—and marches through the iron gate that surrounds the building’s front gardens.  
224 of polished gold numbering, he knows the address—it’s ingrained in his soul now along with everything Draco. His smells, his feel, the fragile bits which make up the man’s psyche—Harry has them all and is too greedy to share them with the world. Draco is _his_ and he doesn’t want to admit why he’s so possessive. Love has never come easily for Harry.

Rapping at the door with his knuckles—once, twice, thrice—and there is no answer. He repeats the motions. Again no answer, but he can feel Draco’s life force just beyond the door. Harry bites his lip and bangs harder at the door, he can sense Draco’s magic—his spike of fear, his self-loathing, but there is still no answer and Harry doesn’t know how to make this right. He doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. Only that’s a lie—he knows very well everything he does usually goes to shit.

“Draco,” he calls softly, almost broken, “Open the door—please.” His forehead is against the wood, and he feels as if Draco’s is also resting in the same spot on the other side. He calls again, “I miss you.”

He swears he hears the swallow, but he doesn’t stay to feel the silent sob.

There’s a park bench he sits on—watching all the pleasant people living their lives before him. None of them knowing he died for them—none of them caring that even now he cannot have what he wants most. “Ingrates,” he says with a mutinous glare, “All of you.”

 

Draco’s looking over the lovely silk tapestries recently imported from China—old families, some older than his own, with their names woven in gold through the fabric. He brushes a gentle finger against the names of fathers and their sons as a heavy sigh exits his mouth, filling the shop with more regrets. A bell jingles above the door as a customer arrives and he steps away from the tapestry with a proud air and a welcoming smile.

Around a bend of tall bookcases he comes face to face with Ginevra Weasley. Surprise evident in the slight widening of his eyes as Draco pauses before her and then, in a second, his emotions are gone—hidden beneath a mask of pale flesh, “Ah, Weasley,” he says.

“Of all the men in the world, why did Harry want _you_?”

He can’t help or deny himself the victorious smile. “He and I have the most history.”

Her wand is out before he can blink, and she has the smooth tip pressed against his septum. “I can’t forgive you, and I will always hate you.”

Despite his fear Draco whispers, “The feeling is mutual.”

She murmurs a hex and he assumes she has the right to mete out some form of punishment, but before pain can dance over his senses she is on the floor—panting and looking confused. Draco is confused as well and becomes more so when the hex fails again. And again.

Weaslette leaves him in a rush when another customer comes in and Draco frowns as he watches her go.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986902246/)  


 

Ron happens upon her when she is toying with the stopper of her abortifacient potion. His face becomes paler and he appears thunderous.

“So you weren’t going to tell me,” he whispers with such calm she swallows.

“Ron-,” he cuts off her pleading tone.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Hermione?” His shout bounces against the white tiles of their cramped bathroom walls.

She swallows and stands before him angrily. “What do you want me to say?”

“Say you don’t mean it,” he yells, and she can see he is visibly restraining himself—he wants to reach out and shake her like he did Harry when he found out Harry had first had sex with Ginny. But this is different, isn’t it? This is a deeper betrayal. Instead of his sister, she could be hurting his daughter.

Her father’s words are loud in her ears and she shakes her head as she looks away. This cannot be—she can’t throw away her wants and dreams for them. What kind of life would they have? Her, Ron, fights and a baby—it’s nothing like what her parents have. But what they share feels like more to Hermione—she’s never understood why something so _‘wrong’_ feels incredibly right.

“Hermione,” her name becomes a swearword as he spits it off his tongue. He has the bottle in his hand and turns—before she can stop him he is throwing it into the hall and she watches as the iridescent potion saturates the wall amidst a shower of dark glass shards.

“Ron,” she screams, “That was mine!”

He points at her covered stomach, “And that is mine!” She glares up at him defiantly.

“Am I supposed to put my life on hold because you knocked me up?” her vehemence takes him by momentary surprise. “I have dreams, Ron! I have plans for my life, and you expect me to throw them away to protect proof of your virility?”

The hurt flashing in his eyes makes her want to take it back but she cannot take back what has already been said. Yet she wants to, somewhere—somewhere she wants to say she’s sorry and tell him she wants what he wants, but she’s much to proud for that sort of declaration. “Ron-,” she tries but his anger is back.

“I’m going to my parents. Ring me when you’ve sorted your priorities.”

Her glare comes back, but he’s not here to see—Ron is gone with a loud crack.

 

 

Over the hill her father calls for her and Luna goes to him slowly. A brook babbles and she pauses, wondering if there are nymphs frolicking in the cool space of this wood. Then her father calls for her again and she decides to leave the beauties to their play. She’s too exhausted to join them in their dancing anyway.

“Look at this,” he says, pointing out a root to her, “The Carruba are nesting in there.” Usually she would be interested and happy to bend down and observe, but not today—today she is tired.

“I see,” she says and Xenophilius looks up at her, from his crouched position, with a frown.

“Luna, this is something we’ve been looking forward to for months,” he speaks with a tone of concern and she smiles as she pets his hair. “Is there something you need to tell me?” He takes her hand and places a quick kiss to it, “You are my precious girl and if you are troubled, I am troubled.”

“I love you, Daddy,” she says quietly as she sits beside him and leans against his side, “I’m just sleepy.”

He looks sceptical, but his suspicion abates when she hugs his arm and peers at the twisting root. “Tell me about the Carruba again.”

He perks at that and she stops listening after “Well, Carruba-,” and turns her attention to the warm grass beneath her bare feet.

Luna wriggles her toes, smiling at the way her blue nail lacquer catches the light. Xenophilius takes this as a sign and enthusiastically regales her with Carruba mating rituals. Luna thinks about Neville and places a hand against her stomach—wondering what he’s doing now.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/7132988899/)  


The pitch is small and the kids kicking off the ground don’t go much higher than four and a half meters. Neville watches from the stands with tired eyes. There is a group of five to seven year olds –one team in white the other in orange and they play with an eagerness Neville both admires and envies.

A father and mother sit in front of him, cheering their son together when he gets the Quaffle. Neville pauses and watches them. The woman plump with age and happiness, the man greying at the temples with laugh lines—they look so content. Neville thinks of Luna when the woman lets out an excited laugh. He places his hands on either side of himself, gripping the bench as he looks up at the children.

“One day,” he whispers to himself, “I’ll have one just like these,” and his eyes linger on the awkward boy playing Chaser. He sighs and stands, excusing himself as a few people have to move to allow him out of the stands. Off the pitch he pushes a hand into his hair, takes a deep breath, and swallows the knot in his throat.

He focuses on Gran’s garden and with a crack is gone.

 

Ron watches the way his mum fingers the cross at her throat and when he glances at his dad he notices that the man hasn’t stopped looking at the same spot on the cover of his morning paper.

Finally Mum lets out her long held breath and says, “Ron, you need to try talking to Hermione again.”

He snorts. “Fat lot of good that’ll do.”

His dad glances up and with a concentrated frown says, “Ron, your mum is right—you need to talk, not shout.”  
Ron toys with the rim of his cup as he shrugs, “Shouting is all we’re good at.”

With a minute nod Arthur says, “That’s not the best sort of environment for a baby.”

Another shrug, “It’s what we’ve got.”

Pursing her lips, Molly is silent for a long time. “You know, while I don’t personally like abortion—I do believe that this should be Hermione’s choice, and I believe you need to support her in whatever she chooses.”

He puts his face in his hands and stares down at his cold tea, “What if I can’t?”

For a long time no one answers and then finally it is Arthur’s voice, “Then I guess we’ll have one less jumper under the tree each year.”

The implication behind Hermione missing out on her Weasley jumper hurts. Molly’s palm is warm on his shoulder,

“If you love her, support her. Ronald, she feels she has more to lose than you do—she needs you now more than she knows.”

“What more can she lose after she kills a child!” No one answers and Ron sighs. He presses his palms into his eyes and says, “I wish this were easy.”

“You aren’t the only one,” his dad whispers and Ron snorts. “Ron, she’s just as troubled as you are—hell, I’d wager she’s more upset than you can imagine.”

 

 

Harry ducks as yet another vase sails towards his head. It shatters and a splash of cold, plant scented water drenches him.

“Out,” Narcissa Malfoy screams and Harry frowns at her when he rights himself once more.

“I’m not leaving.” His tone is even and calm despite his racing heart.

Narcissa narrows her eyes at him and says, “You will leave my home, Potter—you may be a hero but that does not make you welcome here.”

He wants to sneer at her but that’s not his style so he pushes past her and starts taking the stairs two at a time—much to her dismay.

Draco is in his bed, looking wretched and miserable. “Draco,” he ventures but there is no response. The only indication Harry has that Draco has heard is the noticeable tensing of his body. Harry steps closer and continues speaking, taking Draco’s silence as a cue. “It’s been a while—you’ve been ignoring me.”

“How observant of you,” Draco replies stiffly.

“I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.” It is half true—Harry has a good fucking clue but he is playing the ignorance card.

“As usual, your level of intellect is exceedingly high.” Harry grinds his teeth—he hates Draco’s blatant sarcasm when it is directed at him.

“Is this about what happened at Beltane?”

Draco’s laugh is odd—a half choked sob wrapped in sardonic mirth “Yes and no.”

He ventures closer and sits on the bed next to Draco’s sprawling form.

His hands are on Draco’s nape—stroking against the fine hairs and Draco tries to pull away. But Harry’s voice is in his ear as the bed dips with his weight. Warmth spreads up Draco’s spine. Harry’s heat is on him and he’s trying to fight the sensation of Harry’s lips—wet and soft—against the line of his jaw.

“Draco.” His whisper a deep, needy groan, “Fuck.” Harry’s hands are at his belt—and Draco’s weakly batting his hands away, but then Harry speaks, “Please.” And with that Draco surrenders. There are things they should discuss—words that need to be spoken—but Harry’s palm, warm and lightly calloused, closes around his cock.  
A gasp leaves his lips—he should be quiet, Mother is home. At this moment she’s not exactly Harry’s greatest supporter, not that she ever has been. But then Harry is groaning his name—his skin scorching Draco’s as more of them is exposed—and Draco’s forgetting his mother’s baleful stares and the words he should be speaking.

“Harder,” he commands—Harry’s pushing into him, believing he’s in control, but Draco always holds the reins.  
Magical—there is no other word Draco would use to describe Harry, in this setting. He’s uninhibited—unburdened—not thinking of who he is, where he is from, or where he is going. In this world—for Harry and Draco—there is only the sweat on their skin, the haphazardly strewn clothing, the softly muttered ‘fucks’ and ‘oh God’s, and the thump-thump-thump of the headboard against Draco’s wall. In these desperate moments—these short hours—they are free.

When he comes—Harry’s name falling from his lips—Draco wants to believe they can always be free.

But then Harry’s breaths stop coming in deeply drawn gasps and his heart rate slows—reality is a cruel friend when Harry stands and bitterly Draco watches him as he leaves. Nothing is said when he departs.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/7132987763/)  


 

They are listening to the Healer—in a little over a month the baby will be here, in their arms. George sits beside Angelina when the Healer leaves to allow her the privacy to dress. George finds this comical as the man’s seen her most intimate bits, but he doesn’t voice this thought as he watches her. She pulls on her pregnant jeans and the elastic band stretches to accommodate her bulging stomach. He looks at marks that move with the curve of his child—some webbing faint and light other lines dark, deep, and angry.

She pulls a face full of discomfort and her hand moves to hold her swollen belly. He wants to have her as she was—happy, cheeky, and full of love.

When her gaze falls on him she smiles but he feels as if the smile is only half his—a smile half alive, a smile half dead.

“Your brat is kicking my bladder again—bet the bugger enjoys tormenting me,” she says with a soft laugh as she approaches him. Her hand is in his hair, toying with the wavy strands while she stares into his face, “I love you, you know.”

 _How could she not_ he wonders, but he doesn’t say this—instead he whispers, “I know, Angie.”

“No, George, I really do.” He swallows but doesn’t say anything in reply.

 

 

Harry is messing with the strings of his mandolin and Draco is pretending not to watch him. Long fingers, with bitten down nails, strike a chord and with a concentration Potter has never been known for he listens. When satisfied he plays a merry little tune before setting the instrument back in its velvet lined case.

Next is his banjo. Draco watches his fingers; they dance lovingly across the well kept instrument. A cleaning and a tuning—Harry is meticulous and religious with every instrument he owns. Especially after a show. He’s kept Draco awake on more than one occasion with candlelight as he polished them down.

“Why do you always do this?” Draco asks suddenly and Harry stops his nonsensical strumming.

With a small grin he says, “It helps calm me down.” He watches Draco with a smile far too sweet to be innocent. “It keeps me from wearing you out every night.”

Draco snorts. “As if you could.”

“I could try.” His leer is downright dirty and Draco wishes he didn’t find it so damned attractive.

Soon he drapes his slim form across Draco—his shirt disregarded and his hands working at his belt, but Draco stops him and a frown forms where the playful smile falls.

“What?” Draco turns away from him and Harry speaks the word again, “What?”

Draco’s fingers curl against his shirt, tightening in the cotton which separates them from the flesh of his stomach. Harry’s heated skin warms him through the fabric at his back and Draco sucks in a breath when Harry kisses the dip behind his ear. “Draco,” he whispers, “Seriously, what’s the matter?”

And Draco’s angry because Harry is so childish. He’s resentful and bitter and so many ugly things while Harry is allowed to be bad and feels no guilt. Harry’s green eyes are unfocused without his glasses and Draco stares at him in charged silence.

“Dra-,”

“I’m pregnant.”

Harry has a half formed smile—an expression between ‘You’re joking’ and ‘Oh fuck’ and he seems unsure of which to choose. Harry settles for, “What?”

“Pregnant, Potter,” Draco tries for dry but it comes out a half choked sob and he swallows down the embarrassing desire to cry. “As in, your spawn grows in my body.”

A breathless laugh escapes Harry and he speaks, “What?” Annoying Draco to no end with the repetitive use of one word.

“You’re going to be a father so you might want to work on your vocabulary,” Draco snaps then he watches Harry in concern as Harry slumps forward and leans over the side of the bed, sicking on the carpet.

“How the fuck is this even _possible_?” Harry asks and his hot, sour breath makes Draco’s stomach roll.

“When two people really love each other-,” he stars with a sneer.

“This isn’t fucking funny, Draco!”

“Actually, it’s hilarious,” Draco deadpans. “Can’t you see the universe is laughing at us, as usual.”

“What do you want me to do?” Harry asks as he flops back against the mattress. His hands cover his eyes as he desperately tries not to notice the world around them.

“You’ve done enough,” Draco whispers.

 

It is three days before Ron returns to the flat. He enters the bedroom with a small parcel and holds it stiffly at his side. Hermione watches him with a curious expression as she waits for him to speak. He is rigid in his movements as he approaches where she sits on the bed. Kneeling before her he takes her hands into his and looks up at her with a thick swallow. His blue eyes glassy as he says, “Before I give this to you I want you to hear what I’ve got to say. Can you do that for me?”

She nods hesitantly—they both know it’s hard for her to keep silent.

His thumb brushes over the pulse point in her wrist as she waits for him to gather his words. Finally Ron clears his throat and says, “You know I love you, yes?” She frowns and nods at him once again. With a sigh of relief he speaks, “It’s true.” Then he clears his throat once more, “I don’t want you to abort the baby.”

She shifts and he holds her hands tighter, “Let me finish, for fuck’s sake.”

Hermione stops and patiently she waits for him to continue—another deep exhale before Ron is talking again. “But if you want to get rid of it—if you feel that’s the only option then I will do my best to support you.” She watches him warily and he releases a short, sad chuckle. “I won’t like it, but I love you enough to try and support you the best way I can—whatever your choice.”

She swallows thickly and presses a hand to Ron’s face. “I don’t want to give up my dreams—I’m not ready yet.”

He kisses her palm. His eyes hold a glassy film and he says, “I don’t want you to give any of that up, but Hermione—please listen—I want to keep this baby.”

She starts to pull away from him once again. “I’ll quit work and school and I’ll turn into your mother—that’s not for me Ron.”

He shakes his head; she wants to bury her fingers in his hair. “I don’t have dreams, and I don’t mind being my mum.”  
She blinks slowly, “What?”

“Let’s be something unconventional,” he whispers, “Please.”

Tiredly she bends over him, resting her head on his head and wraps her arms loosely around his shoulders. “Why do you want this so bad?”

With a shaky breath he says, “Because I’m afraid of losing you, but most of all I’m afraid of hating you.” She kisses his hair, thankful for the truth, though she needs time to think.

“I need a few days.”

He swallows his hold on her tightening before he says, “Yeah. I understand.” Yet she knows he doesn’t.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/7132990089/)  


 

Angelina decides to go stay with her mother. George is mute as he watches them pack and Angie has a hard time asking Freddie to go get his things.

When he’s out of sight she turns towards George, “I can’t keep doing this, you know?”

“Doing what?” he says despite the fact they both know the intention of her words.

“I am tired of loving you as someone else.”

He doesn’t flinch, or make any other indication that her words have got through. Angrily she shoves him. “I want to love you, George, but you won’t let me in.”

George doesn’t fight her—doesn’t deny anything she’s said and she snatches up the handle to her luggage. Her hand gripping Freddie’s as soon as he’s down the stairs with his little brown travel case.

With a crack she takes them away from George.

 

 

This is how they wind up at Griffin Park—Neville first and Harry last, with George and Ron between them.  
Neville is on a bench watching the setting sun, and Ron is next to him with his elbows on his knees and his chin against his hands. George is standing behind them, his hand on Ron’s shoulder when Harry walks up.

“We’ve seen a lot of this park in recent years,” George says—breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Neville’s voice thick, “This is where you lot found me when my mum died.”

They remember. And they know this is why Neville is desperate to fix his father. They also believe, Neville included, that waking him up would be worse than leaving him alone in his vegetable mind. What would come of Frank waking—he’d be thrust into a world without his wife, and be introduced to a stranger, a grown man who has become his son when last he knew the boy was but an infant? Nothing but trouble they all know, but Neville holds onto a sliver of hope.

They all do.

Ron rubs a hand across his eyes and leans against the back of the bench, “This is where you lot found me after I caught Hermione exchanging letters with Krum.”

They remember. Ron was a mess then, and it had seemed so insignificant to them all—but to Ron it was another blow to his ego. Another way to feel unworthy and as if he would always be seen last, Ron has always been fragile. He’s never quite stepped from out of all the shadows which fall over him. They all wonder, Ron included, if he ever will. They know where this ends—Hermione’s worth more than Ron, even Ron knows. But he’s clinging to faith.

They all are.

George gives Ron’s shoulder a soft squeeze, “This is where you lot found me when Freddie was born.”

They remember. George had been sitting, staring at the ground in a daze. He was silent, too silent, and in so much pain they could taste it in the air around him. Death had taken George as much as he had taken Fred, only George remained alive. He’s still soulless, and empty—but he’s attached himself to Freddie, the last piece of a brother he’ll never again see. But when the boy was born he saw everything and nothing of Fred in him—his one hope, to regain what had been lost shattered in his hands. He believes his life with Angelina makes up for Fred’s defeat. They all wonder, George included, if this will ever fill the void of what was lost. Though they all know nothing ever can. But George is hanging on a wish.

They all are.

Harry chews his lip, “This is where you lot found me the first anniversary.”

Of course, they remember. Harry was a stoic shell. In his eyes were the memories—burned into his brain all the lives lost. He carries this burden—with him always—even now. Maybe his purpose was served. Maybe now there is nothing left to live for—Harry wonders, as they all do, if he will ever find a reason to carry on. He thinks he’s found something in Malfoy—in Draco—something raw and real with a shadow of his past self glimmering in the madness of their lust. He wants to deny the truth of where this path leads—where these fleeting moments of happiness with Draco will fail. They all wonder, Harry included, if this relationship can be his salvation. Though they are all aware that will never be—Harry’s too far broken to ever find the solace he craves. But he’s dying for a dream.

They all are.

There is silence, again, as they gather their thoughts.

Each of them so lost in their own musings they nearly miss when Harry says, “Draco’s pregnant—‘m gonna be a dad.”  
Harry’s expecting anger, disbelief, disgust—what he gets is Ron’s laugh. Hysterically Ron cackles—his arms crossing over his stomach before he moves his hands over his face and wipes at his cheeks. “Oh fuck,” he mutters, “That’s just perfect.” They are all looking at him as if he’s a bit mad. He notices and with another laugh he says, “You’re not the only one cocking up, Harry. Hermione’s up the duff.”

Neville rubs his eyes and says, “Luna’s about two or three months gone.” When Ron asks him what the hell that’s got to do with anything Neville lets out a short breathless laugh, “It’s my kid.”

“Oh shit,” Ron whistles. Then he looks up at George and with a wry grin says, “Look at us—all practising safe sex like a bunch of geniuses.” George snorts and Ron adds, “But seriously—we’re going to be shit at this. I bet ten galleons on Neville dropping his kid first.”

“Fuck off, Ron,” Neville says though he’s got a smile on his face.

 

 

Hermione is going over formulas—furiously writing things on her parchment when Harry enters her flat. She glances up at him with a surprised frown and he sheepishly waves a hand. “Hey, Hermione.”

“Harry.” She seems guarded and he doesn’t blame her—he did just break into her flat without knocking or asking permission to enter. “Are you here to talk about how you’ve been sneaking around with Draco—if so, I’m not interested in an apology.”

“I’m not here to apologise,” Harry says and gives her a half smile when she looks up at his answer. “I’m here for Ron.”

She snorts. “He’s over your row already, is he?”

“Not exactly—more like he’s ignoring the matter at hand for something far more important.” Hermione’s a smart girl—always has been—she knows what he’s referring to.

“He told everyone, then?”

“He told those he feels most comfortable with,” is Harry’s answer.

She lets out a deep breath—her sigh fills the room and Harry feels compelled to go to her and hug her. Her fingers clench his forearms as they wrap around her shoulders. Hermione’s nails are sharp and painful in his skin but he doesn’t complain—she needs him, just like in the forest he needed her. She’ll always be the closest thing he has to a sister.

“Shh,” he says when she starts to cry and tears fall on his skin. “It’ll be okay, Hermione.”

“Don’t be daft, Harry—how can any of this possibly okay?” Her tone is full of fear and anger.

“I told you we’d be okay back then, didn’t I?” Slowly she nods and he brushes down her frizzy hair. “Then believe me when I say it will definitely be all right now.”

“This is so much worse,” she says—through a few gasping sobs and sniffles.

“How?” He moves before her and kneels, looking up into her blotchy swollen face.

“I was ready to die in war, Harry—I was ready to die for people and possibly make a difference because I knew, in the end it’d be a change for the better,” she sucks in a shuddering breath. “But this—this—is not something I want to die for. Is that bad?”

Harry smiles and with a bemused expression touches her cheek. “Who says you’ve got to die for this?” She turns away from him, and he continues, “Hermione—having a baby is not a death sentence.”

“For me it is,” she shouts, a bit of snot and tears and spittle landing on his face when she rounds on him. “I’ve got no maternal instinct! I’m pants with all children, I’ve no imagination, I’m not fun! Mothers are supposed to be fun—they're supposed to be everything my mum wasn’t.” And there it is—her fear—naked for Harry to see.

“You’re not your mum, Hermione.” Harry holds her hand and kisses her fingertips. “You don’t want to be anything like her or your dad—that right there tells me you’re already different compared to them.”

She swallows. “What if I fail—Harry, I’m not good at failing.”

He chuckles. “Hermione, I’ve known you since we were eleven—ten years, and you still think I don’t know that about you?”

“What should I do? Every answer seems right and, at the same time, wrong—and I’m terrible with ambiguous answers.”

“Sometimes there is no right or wrong—there’s just what your heart tells you.”

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/7132989687/)  


 

Luna is admiring the way all her shirts seem to ride up over her protruding stomach. “I didn’t think you’d be able to tell so soon.” She frowns at herself in the mirror, and turns to view herself in profile. “Daddy’s going to know.”

“He already does,” a voice says from her doorway and she turns to see Ron standing awkwardly in the threshold. “Old bugger asked if I was here to make an honest woman out of you.” He rubs his hand over the back of his neck and tries not to look at her. She’s half naked—in one of her too small t-shirts and a pair of obscenely short shorts.

“Sorry I’m not dressed,” she says airily. “But you know—it is my room.”

“Right, sorry—I just—er, he told me to come up.”

She turns away from Ron and heads to her wardrobe to see if perhaps she can find a cotton frock.

He’s watching her as she rifles through the clothing and his stare itches her skin—she waits for him to get bored and go, like he often does when he’s forced into her company. However, today, Ron won’t leave and finally she’s tired of waiting.

“What do you want, Ron?”

He frowns at her back but she doesn’t notice. Ron clears his throat and says, “Um it’s about Neville.”

“Oh,” she says—feigning disinterest so well he buys that she’s really not bothered, believes she hasn’t a care in her head or her heart.

“He wants to see you.”

Her smile is vapid when she turns on him, “Really, is that why he’s here—come to see me, has he?” She pauses and her eyes go as wide as they can as she breathes out, “Oh—wait he’s not here to see me. Just you.”

Ron seems rather stunned by her tone and she smiles at him with her usual dreamy expression.

He regains his wit when she’s riffling through her drawers—looking for a pair of socks. “Do you even care that he’s not here?”

Swallowing she stands up, and turns—facing him with the most emotion he’s ever seen in her eyes, “Of course I care!” He backs up when she approaches him with vehemence in her step. “How little you must think of me, Ron Weasley—am I really just some fool to you? To all of you?” She’s hitting him with the flat palms of her hands, “Is it surprising that Loony Luna Lovegood can fall in love, is it surprising she feels hurt, anger, and pain just like everyone else?” She slaps him and he is less hurt than shocked, “That’s why your sister thought it was okay to sleep with him—because I have no heart. Luna’s not going to care—when Luna says she likes someone she means as friends, because she doesn’t have urges and longings and is too stupid to understand intimacy.”

He swallows thickly, appearing chastened and he whispers, “Sorry.” But it’s far too late for apologies.

“Get out, Ron.”

 

 

Angelina’s dad answers the door when George comes by—and she wants to run away as fast as possible when she sees him standing in the entrance to the den. She expected Molly, Arthur, Bill, and mostly Ron—but he’s here instead.

The tension swirls between them. Freddie doesn’t seem to notice—he’s got his small arms thrown around George’s leg, begging to be lifted and loved and told that this is over. This eternity of brokenness is gone—that’s all Freddie wants—to be whole again. If Angelina’s honest, she wants to feel whole once more as well.

“Daddy, can we come home,” Freddie begs after George ruffles his hair. “Granddad has a loud dragon in his nose, at night.”

George smiles and kisses the unruly mop of Freddie’s crown, “When the baby comes—we can all go home, yes?”

Freddie giggles in excitement. His dark eyes bright over the mention of the baby, as always.

Angelina tells him to go find Granny and get some biscuits. When he’s out of sight she glares up at George with hazy, tear filled eyes.

“Why are you here?”

George moves to sit with her on the sofa. Her hands are warm when he clasps them and she trembles when he kisses her cheek. “Stop it,” it is a weak plea that he ignores when he kisses the damp corner of her closed eye.

“George.”

“What,” she says—eyes snapping open as she turns to stare at him with a confused frown.

“Call me George.”

“Don’t I always?” she appears uncertain.

He smiles—a sad, wondrous smile that seems to become more melancholy as he takes in more of her face. “You know,” he whispers. “I have never noticed how absolutely breathtaking you are.”

She is still terribly confused and is about to say something when he says, “My name is George Weasley and I think I might want to fall in love with you.”

Tears leak from her eyes and she cups his stubble covered jaw, “My name is Angelina Johnson and I fell in love with you the first time you held my hand and told me you would take care of me and that everything would be all right.” She sucks in a breath and wipes at her eyes, “I should have taken care of you, George—but you—you took care of me.”

“Do you love me because I am him?” It’s something he wonders often.

“No and yes,” she says, “You are him—in a great many ways—but you are George and I want to be with you—not some memory from the past.”

George nods and after he clears his throat says, “He’s never going to be my past, you realise?”

“I know—I don’t believe Fred died, George,” she kisses his cheek, “He just moved inside of your heart—and became a permanent resident.”

He kisses her lips—they taste salty—and his hand on her stomach feels the kick of his baby. “He and I will love you and take care of you together, then.”

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986909216/)  


 

Narcissa hands him the package with pursed lips—she looks as if she’s been sucking lemons and Draco doesn’t have to ask who the package is from.

“Andromeda said he’s terrible with Teddy,” she says, in a tone only his mother can manage—condescending and worried at once. Draco doesn’t answer. He allows silence to fester between them hoping, in vain, that it will give her cause to leave him to his morose mood.

Of course, like all mothers, she’s got a way of doing the exact opposite of what he wants—instead she does what she believes he needs. Her slight weight dips the edge of his bed when she sits and her cool hands take his palm. Jewelled fingers stroke the back of his hand—lovingly they trace the curve of his fingernails and Draco has to glance away from the sad smile she wears.

“I remember when you were born,” she says, at length. “You were screaming and red with tight little fists I had to pry open so that I could count your fingers.”

He wants to make a glib remark about how she must have been worried over the possibilities of him being born with extra fingers or webbed feet—centuries of inbreeding would give him cause for worry—but he is smart enough to let her have this moment and so he remains silent.

“Your father said you had his mother’s hands,” she smoothes her fingers over his pale skin some more—obviously lost in her memories as she looks at him. “But I’d like to think they are my hands Draco—I’d like to think that they are the hands of a parent who will catch their child when that child falls. I’d like to think that they are hands woven with love—hands that will gladly offer up anything to save their child.” He knows to what she is referring—he’s not stupid and Harry wasn’t saint enough to keep the _secret_ of Narcissa saving him in the forest a, well, secret.  
He’s looking at her face—she’s beautiful, his mother, a woman of poise and even in their darkest hours he never saw her falter. So now when her facade cracks and her grey eyes develop a veil of tears Draco feels a sense disquiet.  
“I love you, Draco Malfoy—you are my son,” her hands are gripping his tight and he swallows, cowered by her distress.

“Mother-,” she shakes her head—effectively cutting off his train of thought.

“He’s not worth you, Draco.” Her voice is oddly calm, now, despite her herculean grip on his fingers. “He never will be—he can’t even take care of his godson.” She smiles but the expression lacks mirth. “He’s left my sister devastated—she’s lost everything, Draco, and now Potter’s left her to raise her grandson when she’s not in a fit frame of mind.”

“You hate Andromeda,” it’s the only response Draco can find.

“Don’t you dare use how I feel about my sister to defend him,” she hisses.

Draco looks at her—defiance clearly written in the lines of his face, “I will defend him any way I want—I’m going to have his baby, Mother. I don’t want you spoiling my child’s mind—ruining his image of his father.” She looks ready to interject so he continues, louder, “What if you’d have told me what a rotten git my father was? Maybe you should have—look where his brown-nosing got us.”

She is on her feet, cutting into his words with look of rage, “How dare you!” She draws her hand back but never strikes him. Draco can tell she wants to. “Your father loved you,” she raises her voice. “He loved you more than me, Draco.”

“How do you know Harry won’t be like that, Mother—how do you know he doesn’t love his child, how can you stand there and say Father loved me in a manner that implies Harry doesn’t.”

She neatly clasps her hands in front of her lap as she dramatically looks left, then right, then behind her, and lastly above her. “I don’t see him—where is here?”

He wants to say something—she must be able to tell—she’s holding up her hand stopping any words he might say.

“Look in the package, Draco. Find out how much he loves you.”

Draco doesn’t want to. He knows nothing good will come from this humiliation—but he opens the brown paper covered parcel. He wants to believe in this feeling. He wants to prove she’s wrong. He wants so many things and he dares to dream.

Only when the scroll topples out does he realise dreaming is a foolish man’s game—and he should have never started playing.

His mother’s hand is on his shoulder—she doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t need to does she? Of course she is right—however, that doesn’t make it any less painful.

The trust is more than generous—sometimes Draco forgets how well off Harry is—and the details of the will are stated in ironclad phrases which name Draco’s child the sole heir, in the event of Harry’s death, to the Potter properties.

But this isn’t what Draco wants—this admittance to failure, the generous but cowardly trust, the damning slip of parchment with the words ‘I’m sorry’ written across it in scratchy black scrawl. Draco doesn’t want any of these things—he wants the illusion of stability, but apparently that is something Harry is incapable of offering.

“Piss off, Potter,” he furiously whispers at the heavy scroll in his palm.

 

 

George has a daughter—George has a daughter, her name is Roxanne and she is one of the most beautiful little creatures he’s ever seen. She’s all wriggling pale brown flesh, covered in a thick white film, and she’s screaming as if nothing in the world is right—but he doesn’t care because she is perfect.

Angelina is lying against the white sheets of her hospital bed. She looks exhausted but happy. Her smile becomes warm and kind when she sees him crying as he looks down at Roxanne. “It’s okay,” she says.

“I know,” he whispers, “Everything is going to be perfect.”

Her smile broadens. “Yes, yes it will.”

 

 

Neville walks up the hill faster—his legs burning from all the walking. He’s been out here, on foot for hours and still is unsure of how much farther he’s got to go. He was told by Luna’s father that she would be at King’s Wood in Bedfordshire. She’s been looking into some creature called a Carruba for the latest edition of her father’s magazine. Neville isn’t sure he’s fond over the fact she’s out in the woods alone, pregnant, and looking for mythical—possibly dangerous—creatures.

He sits on the broken, rotted branch of a felled tree and pulls out his magical canteen. A deep pull from the canteen has him sighing happily as he drinks down the cold water. This place is larger than he originally thought and he’s having a hard time believing he will find Luna.

He pours some of the water over his sweating head—and feels the cool liquid as it slides over his scalp and over the lengthy strands of his hair. “I’ll need a haircut when I get back,” he says to himself—if only to pretend he’s not terribly miserable and alone in these woods.

His eyes are slipping shut, and he checks his wand—it’s still in his pocket—before leaning back against the mossy wood. Sleep comes quickly and Neville dreams of long blond hair with a gentle wave and bubbles.

Neville wakes to the feeling of something warm and fuzzy. His eyesight is hazy but he can make out the general outline of a blonde woman putting a blanket over him.

“Luna,” he whispers hopefully.

“Neville,” she says with her usual soft tone—and the soothing sound of her voice makes him want to climb back inside of sleep. However, she speaks and draws him out of the folds of darkness, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, ‘m all right,” he mumbles with a smile as he sits up and rubs his eyes. With the haze gone he can see her clearly. Her bright, wide blue eyes and her fall of golden hair—they are sights most welcome. He isn’t prepared for how far gone she looks—her stomach is a large curve of child and Neville isn’t a Healer but he’d wager she looks about six months gone when in fact she should only be three or four.

“Is—that’s my baby?” He blurts the question out—without tact or subtlety.

Luna smiles at him as she presses her hands against the tightly drawn fabric over her abdomen. “Your babies,” she says brightly, “We’re having twins.”

Neville’s jaw goes slack as he stares. “Twins,” he breathes. She is watching him with amusement swimming in her eyes. His hands itch to touch the curve—which he thinks is ridiculous as he’s never so much as wanted to even think about having children. But now—now he can’t help the overwhelming wonder singing in his veins. He’s created something—something real and beautiful—by doing nothing spectacular at all.

His fingers twitch—she notices and curls cool fingers around his, then pulls his hand to the firm swell of her stomach. “It’s okay to touch, Neville—they’re half yours, after all.”

He swallows. “Are they moving?” Neville cannot feel movement but her smile is the most radiant smile he’s ever seen her wear.

“A bit,” she laughs. “They must like you.”

He pulls his hand away. “I haven’t given them any reason to like me.”

“True,” she says as she sits beside him on the rotted log. “But you haven’t given them any reason to hate you, either.”

“No,” he whispers, eyes on her profile—drinking in every line of her face. Neville used to think, before the war and immediately after, that he’d never know a reason for living. As he touches her hair, golden wavy hair with bits of leaves tangled near the ends, Neville thinks he’s found a motivation. “I’ve given you a great many reasons to hate me, Luna.”

She smiles, as only she can, and leans her cheek into his warm palm. “There isn’t space in my body for hate—it’s too full of love for you, Neville.” Her tone is gentle, chastising, and whimsical all at once—his heart swells at the sound and before he can warn her he’s got his mouth pressed to hers. Tasting, feeling, conveying all the apologies he hasn’t the words or courage to utter—he drinks her forgiveness like a man parched and she lets him have his fill.

“I love you, Luna—so much,” he whispers against her wet mouth when finally they part—the sky is dark now, a spatter of stars twinkle above but are only visible when the tree tops don’t touch.

“I knew you’d figure it out eventually.” She kisses his cheek before burrowing against his chest while they lie against a soft blanket on the bed of the forest floor.

 

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986906946/)

 

Ron swallows thickly—the door in front of him is not a welcome sight, but he lifts his hand and knocks at the glossy wood regardless of his feelings.

When it is open, he and Mr Granger stare one another down. Neither willing to yield—Mr Granger in his usual attire of nice trousers, a crisply pressed shirt, and his hair neatly groomed, Ron in his well worn jeans, dirty trainers, a wrinkled Chudley Cannons shirt, and with hair in desperate need of a trimming. They are very different—as opposite as men can get: Muggle v Wizard, Old v Young, Established in life v Hasn’t a fucking clue.

Yet, in one very distinct manner they are exactly the same. Stubborn and refusing to yield—they stay staring one another down until finally Mrs Granger comes to see who is calling at her door.

“For goodness sake, Jim, let the boy in the house,” Mrs Granger says.

“I told Hermione she wasn’t welcome around here if she planned on keeping this good for nothing’s child, Claire—the same goes for Ronald here, he’s not welcome.”

Ron is losing patience, and with a rather unattractive snarl he whips out his wand. It’s not exactly smart—this course of action isn’t going to resolve anything, he knows. His arm drops and Mr Granger sighs in visible relief. “Sorry, I’m not here to threaten you,” Ron says. Mr Granger seems ready to interrupt so Ron raises his voice as he adds, “I just want to talk and I want you to shut up a tick and listen.” He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning when Mr Granger looks appalled by his words.

“Please,” he adds, “For Hermione.”

Much as Mr Granger would like the world to believe he doesn’t care Ron can tell underneath his boring Muggle exterior he’s got a heart—not much of one, but it’s is still a heart full of love for his daughter.

“All right,” he sighs out, “You’ve got five minutes.”

They are in the sitting room; Ron’s bouncing his knees and waiting for the tea Mrs Granger prepares. Mr Granger is pacing before the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes on the ground as he does another round.

“I do,” Ron starts and pauses when Mr Granger levels him with a nasty look. But he steels his nerves as he presses on, “I do love her.”

“Lives aren’t lived on love,” Mr Granger snaps in reply.

“They aren’t really lived when you don’t have love,” Ron counters and he knows he sounds like a bloody fool, but he refuses to believe this is a huge cock up. This situation is another mountain—he and Hermione have already climbed many and he is certain there will be more to come.

“She could have had a good life with Krum, you know.” Ron grinds his teeth in response to the cruel statement.

However cruel he knows the truth behind the words, “I know—I know that better than anyone.”

“If you loved her, you’d give her the life she most deserves.”

“Can’t,” Ron says in quick defiance.

“Oh, and why’s that?”

“Because she loves _me_.” He laughs. “Don’t ask me why—but she does. Every obnoxious fault and through every row she keeps on loving me.” Ron stands and says, “Maybe this was a mistake—coming here to try and talk to you into being nice to her again. I could say please til I’m blue in the face and you won’t change—maybe that’s why she’s afraid to have this baby, because she’s afraid I’ll be as foolish and proud as you are.”

“Now you wait just a-,” Ron doesn’t stay to hear the rest—with a crack he’s gone from their home.

Hermione looks up when he pops in. Her eyes are tired, and he can tell she’s been pouring over her books again—notes are scattered about, her hands are rifling through pages, and her hair is a frightful mess as if she’s been running her hands through it for hours. She is beautiful and perfect.

He kisses the top of her head and she asks where he’s been. He doesn’t say.

At night she comes in—one of his old shirts thin and stretched across her large stomach, “Ron?”

“Mmmm,” he says as he sits up, rubbing at his sleepy eyes.

“Did you go to my parents?” He is suddenly alert.

“What?” She gives him a look and he says, “Er...yeah I did.”

“Is that why they want us to come round Sunday for tea?” She sounds more nervous than angry and he smiles.

“I suppose it is.” He kisses her on the cheek and pulls her closer to him, she shivers and says it’s cold, and he promises to warm her up.

“I love you, Ron.” He knows—though he’s never been sure why, but he knows she loves him. Just like he loves her—large teeth or not, bedraggled with frizzy hair or dressed like a princess for a ball, Hermione is pure perfection to him.

“I love you, too, Hermione,” he whispers in her hair, and he smiles when he detects the lingering scents of ancient books in the strands.

 

 

Draco is sorting through his newest inventory—some sketchy looking ink wells and their quills. He was not fond of antique blood quills anyway, and he was forever putting off the thought of them when he saw the back of Harry’s hand. He is wondering whether or not to put them down in storage—permanently—when his shop bell chimes, signalling a customer.

He stands, straightening his trousers, and meanders around the high bookcases which hide him from the front of the  
shop.

In a ray of light dancing with dust motes Neville Longbottom stands, looking at the case full of old scrolls and letters.

He is squinting at a particular set—love letters written to the Lady Castile by Godric Gryffindor. She was a Squib born of the union between her witch of a mother and a Muggle nobleman—in ancient times she was burned at the stake for having claimed she could see fairies, unicorns, and dragons. Gryffindor never got over her loss, and mourned her until his death. Every evening, it is said, he wrote her a letter—even long after her demise—telling her how much he loved her and wrote of his desire to be with her once more.

Draco thinks Gryffindor is a fool and finds the tale ridiculous, but can tell by the way Neville eyes the script that he’s just as foolish as his house founder.

“Longbottom—are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to purchase something?”

“Sorry?” Neville faces him, with momentary confusion before he shakes his head and says, “Sorry.”

Draco lifts an eyebrow and Neville flushes, embarrassed as he pushes his hand through his hair.

“Erm, hi.”

Draco can’t help the mocking stare he gives Neville—really the fool is begging to be ridiculed.

“Shit,” Neville mutters and Draco is about to tell him that yes Draco does indeed regard him as shit, but then Neville is speaking once again. “I’m here about Harry.”

“Harry? Hmmm Harry?” Draco taps his bottom lip, feigning deep thought, “You can’t mean that tosser Harry Potter?”

Neville appears less than amused, “You know the Harry I’m talking about—the one Ron, George, and I caught you getting off with at Beltane.”

Draco’s cheeks pink as he turns away, “Your eyes must be as bad as Potter’s if you think you saw me there with him.” It is a familiar game: denial. Draco clings to the game like a lifeline.

“Malfoy-,” Neville starts but Draco cuts him off.

“Fuck off, Longbottom!” He is white with fury when he faces Neville again, “I don’t want to talk about him—he’s a twat, a liar, and a fucking good for nothing wanker who I used to get off with!”

“He’s more than that—always has been if they way you taunted him in school is anything to go by.” Neville is rather bold and Draco hates him for it.

“What do you want, Longbottom,” Draco’s tired—so worn out over Harry and this _thing_ in him that Potter put there.

“I want you to go see him—you know, make nice and get off?”

Draco appraises Neville with a thoughtful look. “Why do you care? You should be just as against this--him and me—as everyone else.”

Neville smiles. “I don’t care like everyone else—Harry’s a twat, can be selfish, moody, and a number of other things, but he’s Harry.” When Draco gives him a confused look, Neville laughs. “He’s Harry Potter—for fuck’s sake, he saved us all from Voldemort!” Neville ignores the way Draco winces at the mention of Voldemort’s name. “Sometimes he forgets he had help, but still he did it—he died for you, for me, for all of us, and I think at the end of it all if _you_ are what Harry wants then you are what he should have.” He pulls a face. “Even if you are a gigantic git, Harry loves you—he loves you like I’ve never seen him love anyone.”

 

 

It is five months after Beltane. Harry’s got a gig. The pub’s packed full—full up with people who want to watch him fail and others who are so terribly optimistic they are certain he will succeed. Ron always takes the piss when it comes to Harry’s growing fan club.

He chews his lip nervously standing in a darkened corner near the bar he watches all the people ordering drinks, chatting people up, and pulls his flat cap down when they glance his way. Maybe this is a stupid idea. It was fun when it was just practice—in a garage, on a “stage” with a “crowd” of three to five mates. This is difficult, to say the least—walking out, willingly, into a spotlight, demanding attention isn’t something he has ever desired.

He rubs the palms of his hands over the growing stubble on his cheeks—fuck, he should have shaved before he came out—and he briefly entertains the idea of fleeing. Let Todd and the others be angry—he’s got to get away.

“You look like you’re ready to take the coward’s way out, Potter.” Harry sucks in a breath—he never thought he’d hear that smooth drawl again. When he looks up he reassures himself that this is not a dream—Draco Malfoy is before him, looking as if he’s had too many pies. Yet Harry knows better. Suddenly he’s at a loss for words and he’s swallowing as he steps closer.

“You look good, Draco,” he says.

Draco raises and eyebrow as if to say “But of course” and Harry laughs.

Then there is awkward silence. It only blankets them as there is still life in the pub surrounding them. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, Draco coughs uncomfortably, and they avoid the elephant in the room. The elephant being the baby growing in Draco’s bloated abdomen.

Harry swallows—there is something he’s about to say but Todd’s got his hand on Harry’s shoulder and he says,

“Harry, it’s time.”

“I’ll be there, just give me a second,” he nods Todd on. Harry waits a moment before he turns back to Draco, once they are as alone as they will get, and says, “Give us a kiss, for luck?”

Draco moves forward, with all the grace Harry remembers, and presses his soft lips to Harry’s. “You don’t need luck, Potter. You’re lucky enough as it is.”

“Am I,” Harry breathes, looking up at Draco.

“Yes, don’t you know—luck is what brought me here.”

Harry laughs, “Oh?”

“I had to use the loo and this place was open.” Harry doesn’t believe him, but Draco’s always been a fucking good bullshitter so he cannot tell if Draco’s being honest or not.

“Harry.” It’s Ron calling for him, “Todd’s waiting.”

“I’ve got to go,” Harry says—there is a question in his words. Draco hears it loud and clear.

“I’ll be here with a kiss when you’re done.”

Harry grins and blows him a kiss like a cheeky git.

Draco’s barely listening. The pub is warm, the people jostling him when they rush by to get to the bar make him uncomfortable, and this place smells of stale piss—there are a thousand other places he’d rather be. Yet, when Harry sings—his fingers dancing over his mandolin—Draco knows this is where he is meant to be. Here with this man, in this place, at this time and everything will be all right. Even if they aren’t, he’ll have Harry.

The pub is in an uproar—Harry and his mates are on fire. There is a force in the confined space unlike any Draco has ever known—he’s never been one for concerts or bands. However, he finds himself drawn to the buzzing energy around him as Harry and his mates regale their audience with the obvious fun they are having. Harry looks alive on the short wooden stage, in the low glow of the spot lights he is a Harry Draco has just discovered.

Then their eyes meet and Harry is singing, “But it was not your fault but mine. And it was your heart on the line—I really fucked it up this time. Didn’t I, my dear?” A short pause and the ghost of a smile sent Draco’s way, “Didn’t I, my dear?”

Draco drowns out the sounds of the crowd—it is only Harry and him in that moment.

“I love you, too,” he mouths and Harry’s grin rivals the sun.

 

“Mum,” comes a shout from up the stairs, “I can’t find my boots!”

Angelina rolls her eyes and George hears her mutter something about never being able to be on time—it makes him smile, in the only way he can now: free, open, and without a care in the world.

Freddie meanders around the scattered mess between the sitting room and the living area—his eyes lingering on the hardly packed trunk. He glances at George who shrugs when Freddie jerks his head in the direction of his mother, asking the silent question, “Is she all right?”

“Mum,” he ventures and Angelina turns around—sighing in a manner that says she doesn’t want to be bothered.

They’ve a day to get everything ready for the journey to Platform 9 and ¾ and their kids have hardly anything ready.  
“What, Freddie?” she asks with the bone-weary tone of a woman who is torn between wanting to shout at her son and hold him close because she knows she is going to miss him while he is gone. George knows the tone well; it was one his own mother directed at him, and his siblings, often enough.

“It’s going to be okay, Mum.” She stops furiously scrubbing the dishes when he says that and watches him as he continues, “We’ll be back for winter hols and you’ll be dying to get rid of us by the time the holiday is over.”

George watches the way Angelina holds him—as if he’s still that small infant taking his first breath, so new and so frail in the world. “Mum,” he grouses, “You’re going to mess up my hair.”

“S’already an awful mess,” Roxanne complains loudly as she wanders down the stairs—one boot in hand the other still missing. George smiles at her as she jumps into his lap, “Daddy, you can’t let me go to school with him looking like that—I’ll be the laughing stock of my year!”

George’s smile brightens as he smoothes back her hair—she looks so much like her mother only with his blue eyes.

“People like your brother—he’s got the soul of a prankster, just like his old man,” George says proudly.

Roxanne groans, “Dad, it’s only okay for you to be silly—Freddie is not allowed.”

Freddie breaks free of his mother’s hold and dashes into the living room saying, “Oi! I am not silly—I’m a genius! Huge difference.”

She sticks out her tongue at him, using George’s arm as a shield. “You are not a genius—toads are more clever than you.”

Angelina tells them to stop, but they’re busy trying to out do the other with a barrage of insults. Over Roxanne’s head George and Angelina’s eyes meet—she crosses her arms and he grins. She tries to keep a serious expression, but his smile is infectious, or so she’s said, and her own grin forms. Then he mouths, “See, perfect just like I said.”

“Perfect my foot,” she mouths back but her smile only brightens and he can tell she thinks this is perfect, too.

 

 

Hermione comes in—her hair wet from the rain. A loud crash comes from the vicinity of the kitchen and not a moment later Ron’s voice travels loudly through the space of their home. “Damn it, Hugo, what is all of this?”

“I was making a castle for Mummy,” He is unperturbed by Ron’s annoyed tone and Hermione hears him shifting more things around the room—grunting as he drags what sounds like a chair across their wooden floors. She winces—the scrapes are going to have to be magicked out of the expensive flooring.

“Mum,” Rose says, coming up behind Hermione with a phone attached to her ear. “Hang on, Scorpius,” she says into the receiver. Then, looking at Hermione, she says, “How was your day?”

Hermione feels a smile as it develops in the corners of her mouth. “Pleasant.”

“Hugo’ll bugger that up—he’s making a giant mess again.”

“He’s young,” Hermione says with affection, “He’ll get less messy with age—your father did.”

Rose looks sceptical, “Dad was born anal retentive.”

Hermione’s laugh is warm and fills up the house. Ron comes down the corridor and glances between her and Rose, “Having a party out here, are you?”

“No,” she says, “We were talking about you.”

Rose begins to wander away, talking to her best mate again—wearing a disgusted expression when Ron leans in and kisses Hermione as if he hasn’t seen her in months. Rose pretends to gag when Hermione responds to him in kind.

“Old people shouldn’t snog,” she’s saying to Scorpius—Ron glares at the banister as she walks up to her room.

“You’ll be old one day,” he calls after her loudly.

“Not anytime soon,” she calls back and he shakes his head.

“Whose idea was it to keep her,” he whispers with an amusing expression.

“Yours,” Hermione says with a loving smile, “And I’m rather glad we did.”

“She’s ruddy awful,” Ron mutters darkly.

“She’s just like you,” Hermione counters.

“I know and that’s what makes her awful.”

Hugo’s hugging her fiercely when they enter the living room and Ron’s disappearing into the kitchen—gone to check on the roast he’s got in the oven. It smells divine, and as she sits on the sofa—holding the book Hugo shoved at her open she thinks this is a wonderful end to a work day.

“Where did we leave off?” Hermione asks.

“Where the dragon tells the prince he’s got to let the princess die,” Hugo replies while he climbs over her pressed skirt—wrinkling it in his haste to listen to her read. Hermione finds she doesn’t care and kisses his unruly ginger hair when he settles back against her and points to the chapter they are on. “Dad was going to read it to me but I told him it’s our story! And I asked him to help me make you a castle like the one in the book, but we had to go to Rosie’s Quidditch match and by the time we got back Dad had to make dinner—so your castle isn’t finished yet.”

Hermione swallows and smiles as she holds Hugo closer to her, “It’s a lovely castle regardless. Thank you.”

“Fuck,” Ron swears when the doorbell rings and rushes into the sitting room looking annoyed, “I forgot your parents were coming by tonight.” He glances around the disassembled room in distress. “I’ll never hear the end of this, I’m sure.”

“Leave it,” Hermione says with a happy smile. “It’s my castle.”

Ron’s answering laugh fills Hermione with more joy, and when he kisses her forehead he whispers, “I’ll hex your father if he tries to insult your castle.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll hex him myself if he so much as sniffs in the wrong way.” Ron shakes his head and heads for the door.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/7132994991/)  


 

Luna’s got them all walking up the steep mountain path. A head of pale bouncing brown hair draws Neville’s eye, and then an identical bouncing brown head joins the first. “Mum,” as one voice they speak, “We’re hungry.” Luna turns—long thin arms moving up to keep her floppy hat in place as she glances around, as if she’s only just realised they are there with her.

“Oh, of course,” she smiles—bright and cheery and so very Luna. “We’ll stop here for a while,” She motions Neville forward, “Come help me set up the tent.”

He hands the boys his canteen and says, “Lorcan, take a drink then give it to Lysander—Lysander, take a drink then give it back to Lorcan,” he tries to appear stern when he adds, “And this time don’t try to share with the nargles.”

“Neville,” Luna calls and he leaves the boys crouched near some smooth stones.

“I bet there are some in there,” they whisper back and forth about things Neville doesn’t believe in, but he smiles at them regardless.

Luna’s skirt is flying up in the wind—her knickers are hot pink despite the fact she’s wearing a thin white cotton skirt and Neville finds her as amusing as ever. “Here,” he says, “Let me get that.” He begins to spread out the tent’s shape and tells her, “You should get them fed.”

She moves to their travel bag and begins riffling though it for the sandwiches she made and the pouches of crisps the kids always insist on eating. She’s got a thermos of soup for her and Neville and is poking around for bowls while he waves his wand over the tent. It pops up quickly—first the bottom floor followed closely by the top.

He steps inside and does a quick survey of the rooms. Nothing foul or harmful is inside, not that he can see anyways and he deems it fit for however long they will be here.

Luna is with the boys a little ways down the steep climb, in a small stream they passed on the way. She’s knee deep and the boys are sitting in the water—soaked to the bone and grinning like mad when Neville arrives.  
“Dad,” Lysander calls, “The water’s nice you should come in.” Lorcan readily agrees.

“Hurry up, Dad,” he cheers. When Neville doesn’t respond he looks at Luna and says “Mum, the Confuddlers are messing with Dad again! I don’t think he knows what’s happening.”

Neville shakes his head and mutters, “Rubbish.” His eyes are on Luna then and she is standing, bathed in sunlight, and wading around the shallow water—dancing in her own way with her thin arms above her head and her eyes slipped closed as if there is nothing in her world but that dance.

He joins her in the stream and puts his hands on her slim waist. The boys are saying something about her having Ear Worms and then they are splashing one another and laughing like the mad little beings they are.

Neville kisses Luna’s ear. “Can you hear me through the noise of your Ear Worms?”

“Just barely,” she smiles, “You may have to speak up.”

He nips at the shell of her ear and whispers, “I love you.”

The boys and he look over maps of the stars at night—a fire burns bright in the little rock pit Neville made. The boys are arm wrestling for the last chocolate frog—neither knows Neville has more hidden in the tent—and Neville is looking at the constellations with a blanket of contentment covering him. His arms are folded behind his head and the boys are starting to yawn as they lie back against the blanket Neville set out by the fire. They are all in the arms of sleep, but Neville draws away from the comforts sleep brings when Luna’s absence becomes a pressing emptiness.

He finds her in one of the bedrooms of their tent. She’s kneeling before the wardrobe and Neville can hear her weeping. Softly she says, “ _Riddikulus_.” Again she whispers it—her voice full of hurt as she grips at the soft rug in the room. Neville glances around then he sees it—a Boggart. It’s him. But it is not him—the creature is holding Ginny, as Luna remembers her and as Neville refuses to recall. They are nude—Boggart Neville whispering words of love and affection to the smiling woman in his arms.

Neville touches her shoulder and she tries to jerk away. “Luna,” he whispers. She refuses to look at him. “Luna,” he says urgently. “You can’t be serious.”

“Fuck off, Neville,” she cries, “I--,” he’s never seen her so terrified—he’s never seen her less than happy. “God,” she yells, “This is humiliating.”

Neville doesn’t think so—he thinks this is human. “No,” he says, “Shhh, Luna—it’s lying.”

Then he glares at the mirror of himself and the Boggart shifts—it becomes Neville cowering away from Snape dressed as Neville’s gran and he laughs. Great peals of laughter that make the creature confused as it shifts, trying to find something for Neville to fear. It becomes the boys, saying how much they hate him—Neville laughs harder. It becomes his mates sitting with him, telling him his father’s dead—still Neville laughs. Then, in desperation, it is Luna telling him Lorcan and Lysander are not his, and she’s saying how glad she is that Neville is not their father, because he’s too dull, too clumsy, too not Harry. Neville’s laughter falters—but Luna’s pours into the room in place of Neville’s and with a quick wave of her wand she says, “ _Riddikulus_!”

“None of that could ever be true,” he says as he pulls her to him—when the creature is gone—needing her to know he adds, “I never, ever loved Ginny.”

“I know,” she says weakly, “But sometimes knowing things doesn’t mean you believe them.”

He nods in understanding and she climbs into his lap, her mouth on his—desperately trying to reaffirm what they both know and what they both believe.

“Hold me, Neville,” she gasps when his hands curve around her bum and slip up the skin of her back.

It is frantic—something sex has never really been with Luna. She is demanding and terrified, as if she will lose something precious if she doesn’t have him now. His trousers are barely open, his cock pulled out, and her knickers are shoved to the side—she’s not terribly wet, but this isn’t just pleasure; this is something more.

The boys are sleeping by the fire, the flame of which has long since diminished. Warmth glows from the embers and Luna drapes a blanket across where the boys are awkwardly curled on the ground.

“We should get them inside,” Neville says.

“Why, they love being outside—let them have fun,” Then she reaches a hand out for him and says, “Come help me set some wards.”

He pulls his wand from his pocket, and ruffles Lorcan’s hair and pats Lysander’s back as he goes to help her with the wards around camp.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/7132996587/)  


 

Harry’s got a short feathered quill in his hand—he’s writing words down on a piece of parchment, then he strums his guitar and adds more as an afterthought. Draco is looking through the glass at him—hiding far enough back so that Harry doesn’t spot him. He’s always down here now—in the old basement turned studio. Most nights his mates come round, with their girlfriends, their children, but most usually alone. They work, they drink, they laugh, they live in happiness—a happiness Draco is glad Harry knows.

Scorpius bounces into the room, her short black hair styled straight and pinned to the side with bright hair clips. “Dad,” she says, plucking the strings on the banjo propped up by the chair Harry occupies.

“Yeah,” he looks up from his parchment with a half smile—his glasses hanging low on his nose, an arm resting on the side of his acoustic guitar. Draco watches them as he moves deeper into the control booth of Harry’s studio. He sits in one of the well padded chairs and leans back--crossing his arms as he watches his daughter. She is Harry through and through. Her clumsy movement, her colouring, her manner of speech—it is almost as if she isn’t Draco’s at all.

“Why aren’t you recording tonight?” she wonders—and takes the seat next to Harry, actively avoiding eye contact while she picks at the pages he’s writing on. “What’s this?” she asks—not giving him time to answer his previous question and Draco smiles while Harry laughs.

“A song—it’s about time I came up with more stuff, Todd says.” He plays a bit of the tune and she listens attentively like she did when she was in nappies. “We’re not recording because I’m supposed to be ‘exercising my brilliance in solitude’.” When she makes a confused face he adds, “It means I’m supposed to do all the work while they go out for a piss up.”

Scorpius makes a face. “That’s rude.”

“Scorpia,” Harry says—Draco rolls his eyes, Harry’s never liked her name, and actively strives to irritate Draco by using her ‘eloquent and fucking posh’ nickname. “Your ol’ dad is brilliant see—with his shit sorted and has ambition.”

She snorts, “Father says the only ambition you have is getting your dick wet.”

Draco is proud and scandalised. Harry is horrified and amused.

“He knows me so well,” Harry says as he sets the guitar aside. “So what really brings you down here—to this, what’d Draco call it, _dank dungeon_?”

Scorpius smiles and spins around in her chair—one turn, two turns, three—“Oh, nothing,” she says.

“Is this about school?”

She bites her lip and then they know the answer. At this point Draco wonders if he should reveal himself, go talk to her, and see if he can make it better. Harry’s shit with words unless he’s stringing them into songs. But then Harry is talking and Draco gives him his moment—because if he cocks up, Draco will make it right.

“You can tell me if it is,” Harry’s terribly kind now—nothing of the old Potter in his tone when he speaks to their  
daughter. His enveloping kindness is Scorpius’ alone. “I was fucking terrified about school when I was your age.”

“Really?” Her interest is piqued.

“Oh yes, I thought I’d have to pull a rabbit out of the sorting hat and that if I didn’t they’d toss me out.” He laughs at the ridiculousness of it, and Draco cannot fight off his amused grin—only Harry would be that clueless.

“I’m worried about being laughed at,” she says quietly. It makes Draco’s heart hurt to hear her worry.

“Oh,” Harry climbs off his stool and moves to hug her, “Oh, love,” he gives a short laugh. “They are not going to laugh at you—why would people laugh, you’re perfect.”

“You have to say that, you’re my dad.” She snorts but clings to Harry’s back—burrowing her nose in his chest.

“I don’t have to say it—I say it because I mean it,” he kisses the dark hair on her head. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I thought Father was,” she says when she pulls back from Harry after some minutes of just holding him.

“He is—and you are because you are a part of him, and a part of me.” The smallest truths are the ones that are the most prevalent—Harry loves Scorpius because she is a piece of Draco that will always be his. Draco knows this, Harry knows this, but for her sake Draco hopes Scorpius never knows.

Draco still remembers the words, “I may fuck this up.” Harry had said—his hand on Draco’s deformed stomach. “I don’t know if I want this—I’m going to be a shit dad, you know—but I hate being without you so I’m going to hitch a ride with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

“You should tell Father, Dad,” Scorpius says, “I don’t think he knows how much you love him.” Harry smiles and ruffles her hair; grabbing both sides of her face and tipping her head down to place another kiss on top of her hair.

“You’re a good girl, Scorpius,” he says.

“What’s this song about,” she wonders—peering at the pedestal and the paper on top of it. “But I’ll be home in a little while,” she reads, “Lover, I’ll be home.” With a wrinkled nose she says, “Eww, Dad.”

“Off with you,” he says with a fond smile, “Teddy’ll be here soon and then both of you can annoy your Father while he and Andromeda argue over what you can and cannot take to Hogwarts.”

“Love you, Dad,” she smiles and gives him a tight hug before exiting the sound-proof room.

Harry pushes a button on his desk and says, “You can come in now, Draco.”

Draco should know by now it is hard to sneak by Harry. He goes into the room—his steps a dull sound against the thick burgundy carpet.

“Writing again, I see,” Draco says as he circles behind Harry—touching his exposed nape with cool fingers.

Harry smiles as he sits once more in his seat, “Always.” The posters of Harry, framed albums and their covers can attest to Harry’s constant creativity. If Harry’s not sitting in the living room listening to Quidditch matches with Scorpius he’s in this room writing, singing, or strumming. If Harry’s not buried bollocks deep in Draco, if he’s not got Draco’s cock down his throat—trying to extract every delicious sound Draco creates—he’s here, in this cave, making the sounds which have become the background noise to other people’s lives.

Draco walks around Harry’s chair—staying his hand when it moves to lift his guitar. “Later,” he whispers.

Then their mouths are meeting—a needy clash of hard bodies as Harry knocks Draco against his desk. “Later,” Harry repeats Draco’s words while his hands fling his parchments to the floor.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/45301693@N07/6986910246/)

End


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